Don't Forgive Me
by J'dJagged
Summary: Elena is a vampire and has been sired to Damon. Klaus, with Stefan's support, suggests help from a different kind of witch (OC). Her specialty? The dead. Bringing back the past always causes complications. A story of falling in and out of love. Mainly but not in order: Stelena Delena DamonOC KlausOC Klaroline
1. Prelude

They were gathered in the Salvatore living room discussing what to do about Elena's humanity, or lack thereof. Elena was sitting next to Bonnie who was sitting next to Jeremy on the couch, carefully keeping a safe distance between siblings opposed by their own nature. Damon sat comfortably in his sofa chair with a tall glass of bourbon. Stefan leaned against the wall with Klaus nearby as Caroline paced around the living room in an effort to ease her own discomfort in the situation, seemingly making Tyler a bit fidgety, which may have been partly true, but was mostly due to Klaus' lingering stares from off to Stefan's left.

"We need a witch," Klaus announced in the midst of Caroline's anxious banter about the sire bond, sending a sideways glance Stefan's way.

"We have a witch," She replied without missing a beat, entertaining Klaus with every flustered move and irritating Tyler more and more with every passing second.

"We need a better witch," Stefan continued Klaus' extensively incomplete thought.

"We have a Bennett witch," Caroline said pointedly.

"We need a _better_ witch," Klaus repeated Stefan's comment, placing a certain emphasis that gave Caroline two tiny wrinkles between her eyebrows as she scrunched her face with annoyance.

"You _can't_ do better than a Bennett witch," Caroline defended her best friend with a passionate glare in her narrowed eyes.

"I can," Damon countered, "and I have," he added with a smirk, already knowing where this was heading. There weren't many witches better than a Bennett witch. In fact, there was only one.

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	2. Continuation

"You have to call her," one Salvatore pushed, matter-of-factly.

"No, I don't _have_ to do anything," the other pushed back with the same tone.

"_Yes_, you have to do this," Stefan argued with his brother.

"_No_, I don't _have_ to do _anything_," Damon replied stubbornly, among other things. His piercing blue eyes looked straight into his brother's dark green ones; he knew their history so why was he pushing so hard? Stefan would stop at nothing to break the sire bond. It was becoming more and more apparent that he would accomplish it at any cost, including siding with Klaus against his brother.

"Enough," Klaus was bored with the back and forth. "Now either you get the witch over here or I make you. It's your choice." His blue eyes hid no tolerance.

"Then I guess I'm drinking the Klaus Kool-Aid," Damon remarked, unenthused and somewhat miffed by the threat.

He began to walk away, leaving the room with a chip on his shoulder, but Klaus stopped him with a quick, "Do it now," and a harsh glare daring his defiance.

"I can't do it now. What, do you think I have her number on me? It's been decades that I haven't seen or spoken to her," Damon had a look of surprise on his face, the worried look of someone about to fail to meet unrealistic expectations.

"Just send the signal," Klaus said, knowing Damon was evading the alternate route to take the easy way out and possibly delay what he thought he could avoid. Damon sulked off with a sour look on his face.

Two hours later, Bonnie was back with several carefully selected items. She placed them in a particular order on the Salvatore dining room table and opened her grimoire to the message-sending spells. She took a seat and sighed heavily. "What?" Damon probed unhappily.

"Well it's not like you've made this easy for me or anything. We could have just done a message spell but you don't have a strand of her hair. Just one stupid strand, but no," she trailed off as she pouted, flicking through pages to where she had dog-eared an important section.

"Oh, I'm sorry I don't keep a lock of hair from everyone I've met over the past century and half," cynicism thick in his half inebriated voice.

"I'm going to astral project you, similar to what Jonas did with Elijah to find Elena. I say _similar_ because you _also_ need hair to do that," she glared at him.

"Ok, ok just, what do I have to do?" he asked, admitting defeat.

"Put the glass down, first of all. Then concentrate your entire mental capacity on her face. You need to properly remember it or you might track down the wrong person." Bonnie began to chant but was interrupted.

"This won't work. Did I mention it's been decades? She's not a vampire, she's going to have changed," half drunk and fully defeated, he continued sipping from his glass.

"Stop!" Bonnie hollered at him, losing her patience quickly and surprising both of them. "Just concentrate," she mumbled before going back to chanting.

"Fine, alright, just try not to lose it while you're projecting me or whatever," he grumbled, closing his eyes and picturing her with his mind's eye from the last time he saw her.

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	3. Even in the Dark

In response to my R&R's:

+ I don't know about "lots of Klaroline," but I don't wanna give it away ;)

+ The witch will not be a vampire, but I also don't wanna give it away ;) I am trying to stay in line with the "laws" that have been laid down thus far. According to Rebekah, if a witch is transformed into a vampire, their magical powers will vanish. Witches share a special bond with Nature that allows them not only the ability to draw power but literally _feel_ the Earth. Much like their magic, should a witch become a vampire, they lose their connection with the Earth as well."

+ Stay tuned, there will be plot twists

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It was 1945.

Damon had left New Orleans only a couple years ago after accidentally siring Charlotte. He was doing his best to forget about the mess altogether by savoring the women in brothels from around the country while searching for a way to open the tomb that encased the woman he loved.

He walked into the 'Llop Shoppe, a tiny brothel in New York, and was greeted by a parade of buxom brunettes and red heads. The women were delighted at the chance to please such a gorgeous man and swooned dramatically, doting on him with the hope of being chosen. The owner of the shoppe, an older man with a crooked nose and tasteful leather shoes, politely separated him from the pack.

"How can I help you this evening?" he grinned perversely. "Or should I say, how can you help me? You'll have to pick quickly or business will certainly slow, if not come to an entire halt, for the evening," he winked. The women were practically lined up as he looked over each one carefully, "Now, don't get too anxious and forget our policy," he pointed to the sign to their right that read; '_fun after finance_.'

Just then, two other women emerged from a veil behind the women that hid a hallway lined with several closed doors. They were both on the shorter side with jewel green eyes and had long flowing hair. The one with mussed, straight black hair and the other with tousled locks of blonde; the only blonde in the entire brothel, Damon noticed. "That one," he said vaguely, without a second thought.

They were smiling and giggling, sharing meaningful glances and, as if to answer his very wishes before his very eyes, they kissed. It wasn't extensive or ostentatious, but it was doused in a flame of passion. His jaw dropped, aching to be a part of that. "Them," he said breathlessly.

"Them?" the owner said questioningly, not having witnessed the action. He followed Damon's line of sight and let out an understanding, "Aah." He paused, unsure of how to phrase his next words, "Well, sir, you see, going off of past occurrences, I can say surely that the lady doesn't like to share."

Damon was snapped out of his reverie like he had been splashed with cold water, "I beg your pardon? Perhaps I've mistaken my location," he trailed off, referring to how he was willing to pay for his desires. The women's conversation had come to a close. As the brunette leaned in and gently placed a kiss on her lover's parted lips, she lifted her feline gaze to meet his. Then she took a few extra bills from her purse and passed them to the blonde. Damon's jaw dropped for the second time as he understood what he was witnessing. The old man recognized the look on his face and chuckled.

She passed them on her way out, "Good evening," she whispered. He felt an instant attraction as she passed, his keen senses quickly picking up on the trace scent of expensive perfume almost entirely masked by the odor of sex and cigarettes.

Damon turned back to the old man, "So, no?" he asked unnecessarily. The old man shook his head. "Please excuse me," he said as he hurried to leave the brothel in pursuit of the woman. The women cooed and cried after him as he disappeared through the wooden doors. Although the doors had barely time to close behind her, she was nowhere in sight, but the feint smell of her perfume lingered in the breezeless night and he followed it.

It didn't take him long to track her, using his incredible speed to quicken the process. She was around the back of the brothel, walking down the street at a brisk pace. He paused in the shadows as he watched her glance over her shoulder before ducking into a nameless alley where no streetlights could illuminate. As she disappeared into the darkness, so did he.

"Excuse me, Miss?" he called out after her but she didn't turn for him. "Miss!" he said louder, still in pursuit and still to no answer. Finally, just before she exited the alley on the other side of the block, he caught her wrist in a gentle but unyielding grasp.

"I am not a whore," she almost shrieked, desperately trying to rip her hand from his as he kept her in the shadows, away from prying eyes. He could see her clearly even in the dark: her cheeks were flushed from earlier events and her lips red and swollen from kisses and love bites. Even in the dark, she was radiant.

"I know," he said, "Please, my intentions are pure," he lied as he attempted to compel her. Her eyes were wide and her lips parted as she inhaled a sharp breath. Her skin was on fire from his touch. She could feel the life that once coursed through his being; she could feel the energy that now animated his soul.

"Your intentions are purely wicked," she said breathlessly, feeling the weight of his compulsion but not bending to it. She wanted to demand him to release her, but his eyes were captivating, shining brilliantly even in the dim light. "Vampire," she said, the barest of whispers, almost a whimper from her pretty lips.

Shock was evident on his face: compulsion had never before failed him. She did not smell of vervain. "Witch," he concluded. Moments passed where nothing was said, desires left unspoken.

"You wish to hurt me?" she asked softly, clearly pronouncing every word. She feared he would use his strength to overpower her, to taste the blood that pumped through her veins. She knew she could defend herself, but wasn't sure she wanted to.

"Only if you wish it," he said before pressing his lips to hers.

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Trivia :)

+ The 'Llop Shoppe – 'llop is short for _trollop_, a synonym for prostitute

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